David Wandsworth grew up outside Chicago, but an ingrained Anglophilia led him to jump the pond and settle in London. Here he teaches secondary school, obsesses over the Beatles and Frank Sinatra and talks about nothing but film. Such disparate and unlikely influences as Proust, Kierkegaard and Groucho Marx inform his prose.
He has a lovely daughter whom he forces to watch old movies and fake-laugh at his jokes, and tries to write books that would appeal to her.
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